


all this broken bone

by parentaladvisorybullshitcontent



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Minor Character Death, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25332331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parentaladvisorybullshitcontent/pseuds/parentaladvisorybullshitcontent
Summary: "People touch me and they die, that’s it.”The words seem to hang there in the air between them, heavy and impossible."You're kidding," Phil says, faintly.In which Dan can't touch anyone without killing them, and Phil has a crush on him anyway.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 56
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [midnight_radio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnight_radio/gifts).



> This is for the wonderful Andrea, @midnightradio on tumblr! I know you love Pushing Daisies and I didn't wanna do the whole Pushing Daisies thing properly (not when I have hope in my heart that your fic may one day be freed into the world), so this is just vaguely inspired by it. Very vaguely. Happy birthday, angel 💖💖💖
> 
> thank you so so much to the lovely dayevsphil for cheerleading and convincing me that this wasn't total trash. you're a good egg 💖💖💖💖
> 
> title is from Summertime by My Chemical Romance

"That was my fault," Dan says, after the guy on the bus collapses.

  
They're sitting on the curb as the sun goes down, birds singing in the trees. The spring sky is streaked with orange, the narrow lane deserted save for the bus and the ambulance, green-jacketed paramedics moving in Phil's peripheral vision. It feels wrong to look - like turning and staring at a car crash. He looks at the long grass in the field opposite them instead.

  
"What?"

  
"Doesn't matter."

  
Dan's hunched over like he's trying to make himself small, eyes dark in the waning light. Phil's chest aches when he looks at him, a hollow kind of hurt. He was Phil's distant crush for so long, the pair of them always the last two people on the bus. Phil had pointedly not-looked at him for months and months, privately caught up in childish daydreams. It was stupid, after all, to get swept away by nice hair and dimples and a startled, distracted smile when their eyes accidentally met.

  
After a while, they'd ended up talking. There had been late buses on cold evenings, when Dan had forgotten his coat - his breath misting white in the frosty air. They'd swapped numbers, which had led to funny texts and memes late at night. Phil had quickly got into the habit of forcing his eyes to stay open in the dark so he could type out a fumbled goodnight, fingers hesitating over heart emojis.

  
And now they’re on the curb at sunset, and Dan is folding into himself, saying with certainty that some guy collapsing out of nowhere is his fault.

  
"He hit you," Phil reminds him. Dan touches his jaw with his gloved hand like he'd forgotten. "Are you ok? Does it hurt?”

  
"I'm _alive_ , put it that way."

  
_So's he_ , Phil nearly says, but the words die in his throat. The further down into the trees the sun sinks, the more the blue ambulance lights cut through the greying dusk. He thinks if the guy was alright they'd have taken him to hospital, surely - they wouldn't all just be waiting here, hanging around.

  
"He probably overdid it when he assaulted you," Phil says, dispassionately. When Dan doesn't look any less haunted, he adds, "I'm sure he's fine. It's just - it's not your fault, whatever it is. Like, absolutely not."

  
Dan just doesn't say anything.

  
"Thanks, by the way," Phil says, to fill the silence. "For - for trying to defend me like that."

  
He thinks Dan won't say anything at first. Phil looks over at him. The last rays of sunlight catch on his hair, picking out highlights in gold. 

  
"He shouldn't have spoken to you like that."

  
"Nothing I haven't heard before."

  
Dan just shakes his head, jaw tight. Phil thinks of the way he'd stood up on the deserted bus, getting between Phil and the guy who's in the back of the ambulance now, face like thunder. He thinks about the way he'd scrambled to get to his feet, to touch Dan's arm through his jacket.

  
Then the guy had swung a punch and dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Everything had happened quickly after that.

  
"Hey," Phil says, soft. "Split a taxi with me?"

  
Dan looks at him then, eyes glinting. He nods.

  
-

  
He doesn't hear from Dan for weeks after that. 

  
He doesn’t catch the bus anymore. Once all the other passengers have traipsed off at their stops, Phil rides the last fifteen minutes alone. He texts, but Dan doesn't reply. 

  
Phil lies awake in the early hours, scrolling through their old conversations, heart heavy with unspent goodnights.

  
Does he think Phil thinks it's _his_ fault that that guy collapsed or - or whatever it was that happened to him? Maybe it's something else - maybe Phil did something wrong, maybe he said something that upset him. 

  
_I hope everything's ok_ , he types and deletes three times, before hitting send.

  
-

  
Weeks later, there's a thunderstorm.

  
The sky's been purple all day, dark and bruised looking beyond the office windows. Phil hurries out of work to the rumble of thunder overhead. He pushes his glasses further up his nose and pulls his hood up tight, hoping against hope that the downpour waits until he's safely on the bus.

  
Miraculously, it does. He ends up huddled in a window seat, feet warming by the radiator, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass. He's zoning out listening to music, ignoring the way the bus is jostling him and the noise of the engine - when he sees someone walking along the street outside.

  
They aren't wearing a coat and they don't have an umbrella, hair plastered to their head. It's only when the bus stops at some traffic lights and the stranger turns, face eerily expressionless, that he realises it's Dan.

  
Afterwards, he doesn't know what makes him do it. It's a split-second decision, an impulse borne from weeks of silence and worry. He scrambles to his feet, swinging his bag back onto his shoulder and frantically pressing the nearest button to stop the bus.

  
As soon as he steps onto the curb he regrets it. The rain's coming down in sheets, howling wind so strong that his hood blows down almost immediately. He just walks, music drowned out by the sound of the rain, getting steadily wetter and wetter, until he catches up with Dan, a hunched over figure walking too-close to the side of the road.

  
"Hi," Phil says, when he's close enough, breathless and cold. "Nice weather for it."

  
It's like he feels the words like blows, feels how flat and stupid he sounds, like a kid trying desperately hard to be cool.

  
"Oh, hi."

  
Dan doesn't even look at him, much less seem surprised that Phil has just appeared out of nowhere in the rain.

  
"I was just. I saw you and - and I haven't seen you," Phil says, stupid mouth running away with him to fill the awkward silence, face prickling with heat. "I was worried. You weren't on the bus, and - and you didn’t answer my texts-"

  
"Right, so maybe take the hint."

  
It's sharp, enough to cut Phil right down to the bone. He falters in his steps and so does Dan, the irritation on his face quickly softening to regret.

  
"Ok," Phil says, barely audible over the sudden crack of thunder and the roaring in his ears. He feels uncomfortably hot and small, and his eyes sting. "Ok, hint taken."

  
"Wait, no," Dan says. Phil's already walking away. "Phil."

  
He doesn't look back.

  
-

Getting home is a blur. He abandons his clothes in a wet puddle by the front door, glasses hitting the hall table with a clatter, and stumbles into a hot shower.  
He feels so stupid. Just thinking about Dan, about rushing off the bus to meet him, heart fluttering like an idiot, makes him wince and groan, pressing his forehead against the cold bathroom tiles.

  
_Maybe take the hint_ , he'd said, kind face marred by a frown. Like he was disgusted by Phil, like he _hated_ him.

  
He probably did. Phil could hardly blame him - after all, wasn't it creepy to assume that someone was your friend after a handful of texts and conversations? Maybe Phil was no better than a stalker - no wonder Dan had stopped getting the bus. Phil probably strong-armed him into handing his number over, too blinded by the hearts in his eyes to notice Dan's discomfort.

  
He squeezes his eyes shut tight, trying to shake the train of thought. He thinks about the load of washing he has to do, and the pasta he's gonna make for dinner, and the rhythmic hot patter of the water against his back.

  
When he gets out, wrapping himself in towels, it takes him a while to notice the texts.

  
_i'm sorry_

  
_i shouldn't have spoken to u like that_

  
Phil stares at the screen, heart cold in his chest. He's wondering whether to ignore them when he gets another one.

  
_i'm sorry that u were worried i just couldn't_

  
_i'm sorry_

  
Phil swallows, hard.

  
_i shouldn't have just come up to you like that_ , he says, heart beating painfully fast. _it was weird_.

  
Dan's response is immediate.

  
_we're friends how is it weird_

  
_if you still wanna be my friend idk_

  
_i really am sorry_

  
_it's ok_ , Phil says, even though he isn't sure that it is - he just wants Dan to stop apologizing.

  
_can i call you?_

  
Phil looks at that message for a long time. He gets up off the sofa and goes into his room, finding a soft shirt and clean boxers to pull on. He makes a coffee and drums his hand on the side while the kettle hisses and sputters, looking out of the kitchen window at the steely grey sky outside.

  
_ok_ , he sends, once he's back on the sofa with a blanket.

  
His heart's hammering when the phone rings, coffee steaming on the low table in front of him.

  
"Sorry. And - and sorry for always saying sorry, Jesus."

  
"It's ok," Phil says, and finds he means it. "It's - it's a thing, isn't it. I'm always doing it too."

  
"Yeah. Listen, I wasn't expecting to speak to anyone when - when you caught up with me, and-"

  
"It's fine."

  
"It's not _fine_ , don't just say that 'cause I'm being pathetic."

  
"Ok. Well, it kind of _wasn't_ fine. But - I realised after how weird it was, me just running up to you like that. And - and if you don't wanna speak to me anymore-"

  
"No, no, I do. I really do, I." A pause, and an unbearably intimate huff of breath down the phone line. "I just try not to talk to people. That's all. And - and we were talking and - and I liked it. I liked _you_. And then that guy, on the bus..." He trails off.

  
Phil blinks, throat dry, stupid gay brain caught on _I liked you._

  
"You don't still think that was your fault, do you?" He says. When Dan stays silent, he adds, "It was just one of those things. People do that all the time, like. Have aneurysms and whatever. It's just a coincidence. A - a really horrible one, yeah, but - not your fault."

  
"If he hadn't hit me he'd still be alive."

  
"We don't even know if he-"

  
"It was in the paper. I went to his funeral."

  
" _Jesus_ , Dan. Why?"

  
"Well, since I _killed_ him I thought it was the right thing to do," He says. "I didn't go in, or anything, I just sort of - lingered."

  
Phil doesn't know what to say to that for a moment.

  
"If you'd texted, I would've, I dunno. Gone with you, or something. Not that - _not_ that I think you're the reason he died, ‘cause – ‘cause of course you're not, but - I dunno. It's obviously bothering you."

  
Dan laughs.

  
"Yeah, just a bit," He says.

  
"Listen," Phil says, feeling lost. "Let's - we should go for coffee, or something. Tomorrow, or - or whenever."

  
"Tomorrow's good," Dan says, softly. "You sure you're not worried about keeling over in the queue?"

  
"Not even a little bit." 

  
-

  
They end up going to one of Phil's favourite coffee places, nestled away in the back of a bookshop. He loves it because it's so _quiet_. There's something so soothing about drinking coffee to a soft soundtrack of low voices, the occasional hiss of steaming milk and the whisper of pages being turned.

  
They manage to get a table by the window, and they sit and watch the world going by outside. That's another thing that makes this particular café one of Phil's favourites – the giant windows that overlook the bustle of the city streets below. There's a wonderful sense of safety in it – in sitting there with a coffee and watching people and cars hurry by and knowing that, just for the moment, there's nothing to do and nowhere to be.

  
It feels _intimate_ , somehow, to share this with Dan. It feels like sitting here, Dan could somehow reach across the table and pluck thoughts right out of Phil's mind like sugar packets out of the jar between them. It’s like all of Phil's idle thoughts – all of his daydreams about dimples and nice smiles – are just ripe for the picking, if only Dan knew where to find them.

  
If Dan senses Phil's irrational nervousness, he doesn’t show it. He sits with his chair conspicuously pulled back, like he's afraid for their feet to touch under the table, but his smile is warm and he makes Phil laugh until there are tears in his eyes.

  
"I don't want you to worry about this," Phil says, when they're on their second coffee, Dan stirring sugar into his latte, gloved hands fumbling with the spoon. "The whole thing, you know. That guy."

  
Dan's smile is soft, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  
"Worrying’s one of my hobbies. It's right up there with, like, gaming."

  
"God, shut up," Phil says, smiling against his will. There's something magnetic about Dan's smile, something that just makes Phil's mouth move without him even deciding to. "I'm serious."

  
"So am I," Dan says, eyes twinkling.

  
"It wasn't your fault."

  
Dan takes a sip of his latte, dabbing his foam moustache away with a napkin before Phil can even make a joke about it.

  
"What if it was?" He says, all traces of humour gone. "If, like, definitively, it was me. I killed him. What then?"

  
"What, with your highly poisonous face?" Phil says, trying to make a joke out of it. Dan doesn't take the bait. "I'd say it was an accident. Hypothetically. If you'd killed him, which you didn't."

  
"That wouldn't stand up in court, Phil. _Oh, your honour, it was an accident_." He mimes banging a gavel on the table between them. " _Great, that'll be fifteen years_ , or whatever."

  
"This is so, like, weirdly morbid. If someone overhears us-"

  
"We'll just say we're law students. Or writers. Doesn't matter."

  
"Or we could just change the subject and you can tell me what cake you wanna split with me."

  
Dan looks at him. There's something so wonderful in looking back and being able to look - worlds away from stolen glances across the bus, from catching his reflection in the darkness of the windows and pretending he wasn't staring.

  
"I just told you I killed someone and you wanna split a cake with me."

  
"God, shut up," Phil says, getting up. "I'm getting the red velvet."

  
-

  
It becomes a weekly routine, of sorts. Phil spends too long agonizing in front of his wardrobe, rifling through ugly shirt after ugly shirt, trying desperately to find the sort of thing that makes him look like he'd make an excellent boyfriend if anyone called Dan wanted to give him a try, thanks very much.

  
He catches the bus into town, checks his hair in the darkness of his locked phone screen, and goes to meet Dan for coffee. He pines from the other side of the table like a lovesick puppy, the small rectangle of wood a veritable abyss between them.

  
They talk about a lot of things. Old school stories, workplace disasters, video games. Dan always has something new to recommend, a band or an anime that Phil's never heard of, scrawled on the corner of a piece of paper and shoved into his pocket.

  
It's nice. It's really nice. Phil can ignore the yearning - he's been doing that his whole life. He can ignore the way he feels when Dan's hair is tousled and he smiles, when he's being overdramatic about something or laughing. Being Dan's friend is pretty wonderful - their weekly coffee dates keep Phil going when he's bored at work, zoning out staring at the computer screen and unable to make sense of anything there.

  
They text almost constantly. It’s like Phil hadn’t realised how lonely he was – new part of town and new job leaving him adrift. He hadn’t felt the absence until it was filled – until there was nothing but Dan.

  
-

  
The first time Dan shows up at his flat, there’s a storm raging outside.

  
Phil had pulled a chair up close to the window to watch it happen. He's always loved storms, ever since he was a kid. He sits and watches the way the lightning cuts through the sky like the world was about to crack in two, shuddering like a little kid when the thunder eventually follows.

  
He nearly doesn’t answer the doorbell when it goes. He hasn’t ordered anything and it’s getting late – whoever it is can't want anything good.

  
The second ring's a double press, like it might be urgent. He gets up, shuffling over to the door and opening it on the chain.

  
“Hi. Sorry. Hi,” Dan says.

  
Phil fumbles to let him in without a second thought.

  
“You need a coat,” He says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Dan's hoodie is soaking wet, his hair sodden and dripping down his face, shiny with water in the lamplight. “I'll get a towel.”

  
“I'm fine,” Dan says, and sneezes.

  
“Oh my _God_ ,” Phil says. “Don’t move, I - I'll get spare clothes too. Just stay there.”

  
“I promise it’s ok-"

  
“You’re an idiot,” Phil says, firmly, before he leaves the room.

  
He brings back a t-shirt and some old tracksuit pants and a pile of clean towels from the airing cupboard. His mum would be proud.

  
“I'm honestly fine,” Dan protests.

  
“You can’t sit in wet clothes, you’ll get consumption or something. Whatever people used to get when they spent too much time in the rain. _Trench foot,_ I dunno.”

  
“I'm not gonna get trench foot,” Dan says. He smiles, which alleviates the little pang of worry in Phil's chest – the fear that something bad had happened to make Dan show up here like this, when he'd politely declined Phil's invitations every other time. “It’s honestly fine, Phil, I just – I won’t be long, I – I wanted to tell you something.”

  
Phil's stomach drops.

  
“Ok,” He says.

  
“I didn’t wanna just text, I. I dunno. God. I'm just gonna say it.” He twists his fingers together, moving agitatedly from foot to foot on the carpet, dripping water. “I really like you. Like, _really_. I – I think about you all the time, and – and that’s really fucking bad for me. Really bad.”

  
“Dan,” Phil breathes, hardly daring to believe it.

  
“I know, I know I'm just - I'm just the bus guy, the fucking _weird_ bus guy, and-"

  
“You're not,” Phil says, quickly. “You're really not. I – I think about you all the time too.”

  
Dan looks him in the eye then. Phil's breath catches in his throat.

  
“Here's me thinking you were a man of taste,” He says.

  
“Stop. I could say the same to you.”

  
Dan shakes his head.

  
“I didn’t plan for this, actually. For you – you saying that. I was just gonna tell you then go.”

  
“You should get dry,” Phil says. “And then we can-"

  
“I'm just gonna go back out and get soaked all over again, there’s no point. Honestly.”

  
“You can borrow a coat – or an umbrella. You can’t stay like that, Dan.”

  
He just shakes his head.

  
“I'm just gonna - I'll go. I’m sorry, I – thanks.”

  
“You could stay,” Phil says. “Here. On the sofa, I mean, like. Obviously. Or I'll take the sofa and you can have my bed.”

  
Dan swallows.

  
“I can’t. I shouldn’t even be here, it’s not safe.”

  
Phil thinks about that for a moment, heart pounding.

  
“If you don’t feel safe here then – then you should go. But God, put the dry stuff on first. I have loads of coats. You can’t go back out there like that.” He pauses. “But if you think _I'm_ not safe here with you, then. You’re wrong.”

  
“I wish I was,” Dan says. “I – I know you thought it was some big joke, but I killed him, you know. The bus guy. Not – not on _purpose_ , Jesus, even though he shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I just – people touch me and they die, that’s it.” 

  
The words seem to hang there in the air between them, heavy and impossible.

  
"You're kidding," Phil says, faintly.

  
Dan shakes his head, a laugh crawling out of his throat, wild and humourless.

  
"Wish I was. Really wish I was."

  
Phil doesn't know what to say. He opens his mouth and closes it again. It's mad - what Dan said is utterly mad, and yet…

  
And yet he wears gloves all the time. He jerks and moves away if Phil unthinkingly strays into his space. He keeps his hands in his pockets most of the time, all of which Phil would chalk up to shyness and anxiety, except even when Dan seems comfortable with him - even when they're laughing, doubled over with tears in their eyes - there's still that space between them. Their shoulders don't knock when they're walking. Dan doesn't touch him, ever.

  
It's fine, and it doesn't matter. Phil doesn't need anything more from Dan than what he already has. Their friendship has been like a beacon, throwing light into dark corners of Phil's mind that he'd started to think would never be illuminated. He doesn't need Dan's hand on his arm or the softness of his hair, he doesn't need to touch that place where his cheek dimples, so constantly, irrepressibly cute even when he's ranting about something, voice loud and hands waving, always carefully out of reach.

  
Phil thought he just didn't like touch. He thought it was a sensory thing. But this...

  
He swallows. Dan's looking at him, dark eyes intent, fingers twisting and untwisting nervously.

  
"You think I'm mad," He says, flatly. He sounds casual, uncaring, but Phil knows him, and knows that his flippancy is almost always a facade.

  
Part of Phil wants to think he's making it up - that it's something he only thinks is true, something that could eventually be managed with therapists and doctors. But there's something about Dan, about his hunched shoulders and the constant, careful distance between them.

  
"How?" He says, at last, voice hoarse. "I mean, how did...why? Have you always...?"

  
Dan shakes his head.

  
"Last year. There was a storm, a big one. I missed the bus. I was just walking, and...lightning."

  
"You got _struck by lightning_?"

  
"Right, _that's_ the shocking part," Dan says, wryly. "You're fine with me having the _death touch_ but you draw the line at being struck by lightning."

  
"Did it hurt?" Phil asks, ignoring him.

  
"Nope. I mean, it floored me. Like, literally. I hit the ground and didn't get up for about ten minutes. Thought I was dead. But - but I felt fine once I'd got up so I kept walking."

  
"You should've gone to the hospital. Called 111, or something."

  
“I felt fine,” Dan says, with a shrug. “But. Well. Yeah. After that…I couldn’t touch anyone. And that’s why – on the bus-"

  
The guy had punched Dan and hit the floor a second later, all of the life snatched out of him in that one single second.

  
Phil feels unsteady on his feet. He feels like he sidestepped into a dream, some weird echo of real life where everything's the same but wrong.

  
“I was right, then,” He says, after a moment. Dan’s biting his thumbnail, the very picture of nervous energy. The water still dripping from his hair rolls down his face like tears.

  
“What? Did you have _Dan’s a murderer_ on your _things likely to happen_ bingo sheet?”

  
“No. No, God. You’re _not_ a murderer. I mean – I told you it wasn’t your fault and – and I was right.”

  
Dan takes his hand away from his mouth, eyes wide and disbelieving.

  
“Do you really mean that?”

  
There's something so pained about the way he says it. It makes Phil _ache_ to go over there, to put his arms around him and hold him close, hug him so tightly that it hurts.

  
“Yeah,” He says. “I really do. Now, look – just go and get dry, will you? I have a hair dryer. You can have a shower, and – and I'll get pizza.”

  
“I should just go,” Dan says, but he picks up one of the towels off the sofa all the same.

  
“I didn’t hear that because I'm too focused on pizza,” Phil says, firmly. “Do you like garlic bread?”

  
“I – yeah.”

  
“Ok, well. Only dry people get garlic bread, so.”

  
Dan laughs, then. Phil doesn’t think he'll ever get used to that – the way it transforms his whole face, like he's lit up from the inside.

  
“You're the most annoying person alive, you know that?”

  
“But you like me,” Phil says, words foreign on his tongue.

  
“Yeah,” Dan says, so heartfelt that Phil feels like he can’t catch a breath. “Yeah, I do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was betad by the lovely andrea!! keeping the first chapter from you was hell so this has been lovely, thank you so much 💗💗
> 
> also a big thank you to anyone who's read or commented or left kudos 💖💖💖 you guys make me so so happy

Phil wakes up too early the next morning, bright white sunlight slicing through a gap in his curtains and making him wince. He's too hot, muggy-headed and disorientated. He ends up kicking the bedcovers onto the floor, sorting through what was a dream and what actually happened.

  
Dan likes him. Dan _likes_ him, and if he touches people they die.

  
He'd insisted on sleeping on the sofa, no matter how many times Phil had offered the bed. He'd showered and emerged in borrowed clothes, and they'd eaten pizza and watched movies. 

  
There was something beautiful and terrible about looking over and seeing Dan in that old t-shirt of his. Beautiful because it was Dan, and terrible because it was Dan, too. It was like Phil could feel each one of his movements, like they were touches on his own skin. He couldn't stop thinking that underneath that worn green fabric there was so much _skin_ \- skin that probably had freckles, soft and lovely to the touch, a forbidden landscape that could never be his. The clothes were as close as he'd get.

  
Then he felt weird for even thinking like that, feeling like he was violating Dan's privacy in the secrecy of his own head.

  
The whole evening had been like that, though - this simmering undercurrent, like Phil's awareness of Dan had been hiked up to eleven, the smallest gestures leaving him dry-mouthed and dizzy.

  
Sometimes, when he'd looked over in the dark, blue television light illuminating them, he'd caught Dan looking back.

  
Now, he slips out of bed, head throbbing a little when he stands up. He ignores the mirror as he passes and pads through into the living room, floorboards creaking as he goes.

  
Dan's just a pile of blankets on the sofa, tousled hair just visible over the arm, one long leg hanging off to one side. Phil looks over briefly, a camera flash of a moment, before he hurries to the safety of kitchen and kettle.

  
Dan likes him. He likes _him_ , Phil - the weirdo who'd stared at him across an empty bus for so long. And all of the moments that Phil had taken as tiny, smarting rejections had just been self preservation.

  
It doesn't feel real. It sits strangely in his chest, the idea of being liked back. Over the years Phil's had boyfriends, sure, but more often than not he pines after friends and never does anything about it. He retreats into himself and keeps his distance and doesn't say a word, and when the other person eventually finds someone else - when he wakes up to a flurry of heart emojis in social media posts - he thinks, _good_. He thinks, _of course_.

  
Maybe there's something there. Something about him never feeling quite good enough to make an effort.

  
And now Dan _likes_ him, now he'd said _I think about you all the time._ Part of Phil wants to go and stand by the couch and wake Dan up just so he can say, _hi, I know you said you think about me all the time, but what does that mean? I mean obviously I know what it means but I wanna make sure we're on the same page and I'm not just imagining things_.

  
Instead he makes a coffee and hops up onto the sideboard to drink it, hunched close to the kitchen window. The draining board's cold against his bare feet, but the sky outside is blue and bright with clouds. Far below he can see trees, and the bright green of the football field over the road.

  
_People touch me and they die, that's it_ , Dan had said.

  
Phil rests his coffee on the windowsill and turns to Google.

  
The first result is some article about exactly what happens to the human body after death. Just the preview text makes Phil feel queasy, so he scrolls past that one pretty quickly.

  
_Seven signs you might be suffering from touch deprivation_ , says another result - the rest are in a similar vein. Clearly nobody's looked up death touch on Yahoo Answers. Sighing, he taps the touch deprivation article and takes a sip of his coffee.

  
_Body image issues_ , says one of the points. _High stress levels,_ says another. By the time he reaches _loneliness and fear of emotional attachment_ , his skin's prickling uncomfortably and he closes the tab.

  
There's the sound of movement in the living room, just as he's thinking about hopping down to make another coffee. The kitchen door creaks.

  
Dan's hair is all over the place and there's something vulnerable about his expression, something undefinable and soft that only comes in the early morning.

  
"Hey," He says, lingering safely by the door.

  
"Hey. You can make coffee, if you want."

  
Dan smiles.

  
"Was that you hinting that you want one?"

  
"No," Phil says, smiling too, helplessly. "But if you're gonna make one..." And he leans over and pushes his empty mug along, far enough away that Dan doesn't have to come too close to fetch it.

  
Dan makes a show of rolling his eyes, but moves to get the mug all the same. Phil watches him clicking the kettle on, trying a couple of drawers before he hits cutlery. The familiar hiss of the kettle washes over the pair of them.

  
"You ok?" Dan asks, after a moment, tapping a spoon against one of the mugs.

  
"Yeah. Tired. Think I'm always tired. What about you?"

  
Dan shrugs.

  
"Good," He says, then smiles. "You have a comfy sofa."

  
"I have a comfy _bed_ ," Phil says, exasperated, then feels himself flush. "I mean - you could've slept in there instead, and I..."

  
"I wasn't gonna let you take the sofa in your own flat."

  
"It's a comfy sofa," Phil says, tone a tiny bit mocking. He grins when Dan does, heart soaring a little. It's a bright morning and there's a cute guy in his kitchen who _thinks about him all the time_ , painfully handsome in Phil's softest clothes.

  
"You know," Dan says, as the kettle clicks off. He turns to pour the water into mugs. "I miss, like. Like, if I was a normal person, we could've...I dunno."

  
Phil's skin flashes hot.

  
"Take me on a date first," He manages to say.

  
Dan blinks, turns to look at him and laughs, like Phil just said the funniest thing in the world. It hits him like a physical pain, then, even as he laughs himself - that he can't go over there and gather Dan up in his arms, kiss his dimple and hold him close, the way normal people would.

  
"God, fuck off," Dan's saying, colour high in his cheeks. "I didn't mean _that_. God. Even before all this I'd - I'd think too much about it all and end up running out before I'd even taken my shirt off. Not with _you_ , I mean - that's just what used to happen. Before, you know." He wiggles his fingers, vaguely.

  
"I get that," Phil says. "I think. Like - like I can't forget myself. I'm just..." He hikes his shoulders up high, a parody of self-consciousness.

  
Dan nods. He shuffles over to the fridge and opens it, giving Phil a split second to hope against hope that there’s nothing mouldy in there.

  
"I just meant, like. We could've cuddled, maybe." He says it with his face hidden in the fridge for too long to just be looking for the milk. Phil's heart aches. "I'm a cuddler. Or I used to be."

  
He gives Phil this sheepish, embarrassed little smile as he takes the milk back over to their cups.

  
"Me too," Phil says.

  
Dan gives his coffee a last stir and pushes it over, close enough that Phil can pick it up.

  
"It's like," Dan says, both hands cupped around his own coffee. "I was _coping_ , I think. Or I thought I was. You can't miss what you never really had, y'know? Except now there's you." He shrugs. "It's - it's difficult, all of a sudden, I guess."

  
"I'm sorry."

  
“Sorry for what? Being cute?” 

  
Phil's skin prickles and he laughs, because he doesn't know what else to do. Cute guy in his kitchen, in his clothes, calling _him_ cute. This week really got away from him fast.

  
"No," He says. "I just - I dunno."

  
"I'm not sorry," Dan says, and he isn't smiling. "I mean - it sucks, and - and I get the feeling it's gonna suck more now that you know. But like, I'd rather...I'd rather have this than nothing."

  
Phil swallows, his throat dry.

  
"You can have me," He says. "Not - God, shut up, you're such a kid -" Because Dan burst into laughter, of course he did. "I mean, like. I don't care. I'll - I'll buy gloves, I'll - I'll wear a _hazmat suit_ , I dunno. _Anything_."

  
Dan doesn't look at Phil for a long moment, but there's something in the line of his shoulders - some weight, like his knees ought to be buckling.

  
"And if there's the tiniest hole in the fabric and I touch you then I'll end up waiting outside at your funeral, too."

  
"I just won't buy fingerless gloves, then," Phil says, trying to make a joke out of it. Dan doesn't smile this time. "Ok, we - we don't have to do that. We can do whatever you want."

  
"What I _want_ and what I can actually _do_ are two different things."

  
"There's a Venn diagram there somewhere. The, like, overlapping bit. Things you want to do that you actually can do."

  
"Nothing there at the moment," Dan says, casually, taking a drink of coffee. "It's mostly just kissing you."

  
Phil feels like there's less air in the room for a second at that. His face is hot and he knows he's probably bright pink. Blushing was never a good look on him.

  
"Cling film?" He suggests, weakly.

  
"Oh my God, fuck off," Dan says, and laughs again, bright and beautiful. "Fuck all the way off, I'm going home."

  
"I just mean - it doesn't change anything for me. I still - you can have me, like I said. Even if it's just like this."

  
Dan swallows. Phil watches the movement in his throat.

  
"You're making the coffee next time," He says, finally, too quietly for such a flippant remark.

  
"Deal."

  
-

  
"I've been Googling things," He says, a few days later.

He's on his way into work and so is Dan - two different buses going in different directions. They've started calling each other on the morning commute, Dan's huffed out little laughs and dry remarks in his headphones softening the blows of crying babies and rainy bus stops.

  
"You wanna watch that. You'll go blind."

  
Phil makes a stupid _ner ner ner_ noise to show how funny he thinks that is. 

  
"Seriously. Turns out the death touch is, like, this martial art thing."

  
"And that's what you think I'm doing?"

  
"No. They have to touch people a bunch of times to, you know. That's all I found so far, really. And some stuff about RuneScape, but I don't think that's any good either."

  
"Yeah, no. I don't think I'm coming away from this with Attack XP and a couple of quest points."

  
"Probably not," Phil says, smiling just because. Because Dan's a giant nerd just like him, and something about that fact makes him so _happy_. "I just - I'm looking. And I'll find something, I promise I will."

  
"Phil," Dan says, his voice soft - too soft for the harsh Monday morning commute. "You don't have to. I already looked at all of that stuff. Besides, I - I think I know how to go back to how things were, it's just - it's not easy."

  
"I can help."

  
"God," Dan says, a smile in his voice. "It's like someone whacking me in the head when you do that."

  
"What, saying words? Is it the accent?"

  
"Shut up. It's just - you being all, _oh I'll help_. Straight away, like. Without even thinking about it."

  
"'Cause I will. No matter what it is, I'll - I'll help." There's a brief silence down the phone line that makes him feel cold with _worry_ for a second, so he scrambles to clarify. "For you, I mean. Not - not so we can...not for anything like _that_. So you can do whatever you want."

  
"I just wanna be with you," Dan says. Then, snorting, he adds, "I can't believe I'm being this sentimental on a _bus_ , Phil."

  
Phil grins, so wide that it hurts.

  
"It's nice. I'm glad you did."

  
"It's _nice_? I don't like you, y'know." 

  
"Yeah, yeah," Phil says. He makes eye contact with someone reading a book a few seats away and smiles, stupid and wide. They look away, alarmed, and Phil doesn't even care. He could get off the bus and float to work - Dan makes him feel lighter than air. "What was it, anyway? The way to get you back to normal?"

  
"I think I have to get struck by lightning again," Dan says. "Which - I know, it doesn't strike twice, and all that, but I really try. Whenever it rains I just walk around. Nothing yet, but - but eventually."

  
"God," Phil says, thinking about Dan walking in the rain, snapping at him - at him showing up on Phil's doorstep, bedraggled and desperate. "You can wear a coat, you know. I don't think lightning's repelled by fabric."

  
"I dunno. Anything that makes it easier."

  
"You should wear a coat," Phil says. The bus is coming up to his stop - he leans over and presses the button. "Next time. And I'll come with you."

  
"You don't have to-"

  
"I'll come with you," Phil repeats, firmly. He gets to his feet, caught in the queue of people getting off the bus. "We'll find a storm. I promise."

  
"You promise? Gonna get one out of your pocket?"

  
"Yeah. I can do weather alerts and - I dunno, I bet there are apps. Just - please wear a coat."

  
"Ok, mum. I'll wear a coat. God."

  
Phil steps onto the pavement and gets swept up in the flurry of people on their way to work. There's a strange chill in the air, too cold for late spring, but there's golden light touching the tips of tall buildings, sun through the clouds high up above.

  
"Oh, it's nice outside. The air smells good today. Wanna go to the park later?"

  
Dan laughs, a soft breath.

  
"Sure," He says. "Hey, Phil. Are you nearly there?"

  
"Yep. Misery is within sight," Phil says, taking a sharp left down a side street that takes him out right by his office building. "Why, what's up?"

  
"Oh, nothing, just - thanks. For this. For everything."

  
Phil falters in his steps, shoes crunching a little on loose stones.

  
"Dan."

  
"I'm serious. It's - I dunno, it's. This is more than I ever thought I'd have. More than I thought I deserved."

  
"You deserve everything," Phil says, and doesn't think he's ever meant anything more in his whole life.

  
"I only want you. I'm not really bothered about _everything_."

  
He hears the ding of a bus bell down the line, and a flurry of chatter.

  
"Sorry, it's my stop," Dan says. "I know that was, like, disgustingly cheesy. I kind of wanna die, to be honest, can we just pretend I didn't say anything? I'm literally gonna move to Australia and change my name, oh my God."

  
"Shut up," Phil says. His face aches from smiling so much. "It's cute. It's - I look like a mad person just - just smiling in the street by myself, God."

  
"Honestly, same. Occupational hazard." He hears a car horn beep, and Dan's breath down the line. "I'd better go. Park later, yeah?"

  
"Yep," Phil says. There's a moment then, a moment before they both say goodbye and hang up - a moment that felt heavy on the line, words unsaid between them. 

  
It's where they might trade _I love you_ s, one day. If Phil manages to keep this - if he manages to trick Dan into thinking that he's worthwhile.

  
His phone buzzes with a text. When he looks, Dan's sent him a line of glittering heart emojis.

  
Smiling, Phil keeps walking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why this took so long, and I'm really sorry. I've really struggled with getting it done but now it's done 💖💖💖 and good enough! I hope 🥺🥺
> 
> The biggest thank you to anyone who has read and enjoyed this 💖💖 you're all so lovely. And to Andrea, whose birthday was 100 years ago now - i hope you like this 💖💖

In his dream, Dan lies with his head on Phil's lap.

  
Phil remembers learning at sixth form about some psychological test conducted with children and sweets. They were given one sweet and told if they waited and didn’t eat it they could have another – or something like that, anyway.

  
Somehow, this feels exactly like that. Dan is within reach, the merest suggestion of the warmth of him through the fabric of Phil's jeans, and yet he can’t touch. He's wearing gloves – thick leather ones, like the kind he's been looking at on Amazon. His throat's so tight with wanting that he can barely breathe.

  
Dan's hair would be soft, he thinks, when he reaches out to touch it, curls slipping through his gloved fingers. All he feels is leather.

  
"Sometimes I think I wouldn't mind," He says. "If I died. Just to touch you. I wouldn't mind."

  
Dan sits up then.

  
"Really?" He asks, leaning in close.

  
"Yeah."

  
Phil wakes up just as their lips are about to touch - breathing hard in bed with the ghost of Dan's breath still on his face. He rubs sleep out of his eyes and reaches for his phone, trying to chase the tight twist of anxiety from the pit of his stomach.

  
It's true, though. Sometimes he wants to touch Dan so badly that he thinks maybe dying wouldn't be so bad.

  
"Don't even joke about that, Jesus," Dan says, later. They're sitting outside Starbucks, Dan making a big show of pulling a face at the cream and syrup on Phil's frappucino, as though his own drink isn't mostly sugar too. "You'd die, like, straight away. How's that worth it?"

  
"I didn't say I wanted to," Phil protests, fumbling with taking the paper wrapper off his straw. Wordlessly, Dan holds a hand out - Phil hands him the straw and he takes the paper off in one go and hands it back. "Oh, he's the strawmaster now, huh?"

  
Dan grins, wide and beautiful, eyes crinkling.

  
"Do you hear the stuff you say?"

  
"After it comes out, yeah," Phil says, taking a sip of his drink. Dan's eyes are sparkling, and it makes him feel light and stupid. "A hamster in a wheel controls my brain."

  
"Honestly. Like a more penetrative Ratatouille."

  
Phil chokes on his drink.

  
"Tell me you didn’t just say that,” He says, dabbing at his dripping chin with a napkin. “Oh my God.”

  
Dan laughs then. Phil loves watching him laugh - the way it changes his whole face, eyes bright with mirth. He longs to shuffle closer so that their feet can touch under the table, to reach across and hold Dan's hand, fingers entangled on the tabletop.

Instead he crushes his napkin in his fist and smiles and secretly, painfully wants.

  
"I love your smile," He says, instead. It sounds like a stupid line, insincere somehow, and he pulls a face at himself. "Dimples."

  
"Broken face areas. It's a birth defect, you know."

  
" _Ner ner, it's a birth defect_ ," Phil repeats, in a stupid voice. "It's cute."

  
"You're cute."

  
Phil pretends to preen then, touching his quiff.

  
"I know,” He says, in a mock world-weary sort of way. “It's a tough job, but someone’s got to do it."

  
"Fuck off," Dan says, laughing as he throws the balled up straw paper across the table at him.

  
-

  
Phil forgets that he ordered the gloves. Time passes and they have their little routines - their morning phone calls, their coffee dates. Dan stays over and sleeps on the sofa - he has a spare toothbrush in the little cup in Phil's bathroom cabinet, bright green plastic making him smile every time he sees it. His work colleagues have started teasing him about his mystery man, the guy all in black who meets him outside of work, head ducked and focused on his phone, shoulders hunched always in a way that makes him look much younger than he actually is.

  
He's happy. He really is. He feels like he's been found - like he was lost in a crowd all of this time and Dan pulled him out of it, tugging his wrist and leading him into an empty space.

  
Dan is still nervous, sometimes. They're both overly cautious – better to be safe than sorry. They sit at opposite ends of the sofa when they're watching TV - Phil always wears long pyjamas and socks when Dan stays over, just in case, even when it's too hot. They tend to avoid taxis together, just because Dan gets too worried about sitting so close. The train is out of the question, not that they have anywhere to get the train to. When the weather gets hotter, Phil idly daydreams of them going to the beach - of sand between his toes and the sun on Dan's too-pale shoulders.

  
In his dreams, maybe.

  
All of that wanting, all of the daydreaming, that's what had led to him ordering the gloves. But he's completely forgotten about it until Dan comes over one morning with coffee and donuts from a cafe they like, a parcel under his arm.

  
" _Mr Philip M Lester_ ," He says in a silly voice, putting the cups and donuts on the coffee table and easing the parcel out so he can hand it to Phil. "Delivery guy caught me outside. It's squishy, did you get another plush?"

  
"Oh," Phil says, remembering in a rush exactly what he got. "Uh. No. Er."

  
"You don't have to tell me if it's, like. Private. Or embarrassing."

  
"No, it's not! I mean, it is a bit. Embarrassing. It's for you, really."

  
He hands the package back, taking a couple of steps back ‘til he can sit in the armchair and pull his coffee over to him, following the scent of caramel.

  
"Is it a hat?" Dan asks, sitting on the sofa and tearing at the paper. "A leather hat? Please tell me you didn't get me a leather hat."

  
He tears the package more fully, and the gloves fall into his lap.

  
"I just thought - I know it's dangerous. I _know_. And - and I'll wear gloves myself if that helps, but they're special waterproof climbing gloves, I don't think there are any holes in them. And if we're careful we could - we could hold hands."

  
It sounds pathetic once the words are out there - he sounds sad and desperate.

  
"It is dangerous," Dan says. His face is pink, expression unreadable as he examines the gloves. “But - _God_ , Phil."

  
"What?"

  
Dan looks at him then, eyes bright. It’s a little like being hit on the head, the suddenness of it.

  
"I wanna kiss you so badly right now, you know that? _So_ badly."

  
Phil flushes hot, feeling flustered and stupid.

  
"So you don't mind? You think we can try it? Not - not the _kissing_ , obviously. I mean the gloves, and - and holding hands."

  
Dan swallows and nods.

  
"Yeah," He says. 

  
Phil just beams at him until his face hurts.

  
-

  
They hold hands. 

  
It's nice. It’s _more_ than nice – it makes Phil's heart stutter in his chest, feeling like he might burst with pride and fondness. _He's with me_ , he feels like he's saying, when the pair of them pull each other down rain-washed streets, laughing at nothing. _We're together_.

  
Of course he wishes he could feel Dan's skin against his, but he'll take what he can get. Sometimes in idle moments, thoughtless daydreams, he'll watch Dan gesturing wildly across the kitchen, hands making all kinds of shapes in the air, and he wants. Phil thinks about the fact that Dan can play the piano, pictures his hands moving delicately across the keys. 

  
It's weird how it’s that thought that makes him flush hot and avert his eyes. It’s like he likes Dan so much that it makes him stupid. He gets swept away by things that he'd never even considered before – a strip of ankle between the turn up of Dan's jeans and his socks, a freckle exposed by an oversized t-shirt, neckline hanging low on one beautiful shoulder.

  
“I can’t,” Dan says, one day. They’re at Dan's flat this time, cross legged on the floor with the coffee table safely between them, playing Monopoly. “The way you look at me sometimes is like. Like I'm losing my mind. I dunno.”

  
Phil had just been caught in the tiniest, imperceptible reverie about Dan's wrists and how much he’d love to be able to kiss there, where his veins swim blue under his skin. He thought he'd been subtle enough to go unnoticed.

  
“You're just saying that ‘cause I've got a hotel now,” He says, flushing, trying to make a joke out of it. “Fate tells me you’re gonna land on it.”

  
“On good terms with fate, are you?” Dan asks, grinning.

  
“Yep,” Phil says, popping the p and rearranging his property cards. “She brought me you, so. We're like that.” He holds his crossed fingers up and sticks his tongue out when Dan rolls his eyes.

  
“Lame,” Dan says. He rolls the dice and Phil thinks that’s the end of that, but as he’s moving his piece he speaks. “I swear I could just throw this stupid board across the room and kiss you. Like. If I could that’s what I'd do, you know?”

  
“Cling film, I'm telling you,” Phil says, trying to make it into a joke. Dan doesn’t rise to the bait, eyes dark. It’s like he can’t get enough air for a moment, the weight of Dan's gaze stealing the breath from his lungs. 

  
It takes him a second to notice that Dan's landed on his hotel on the Strand.

  
“Ha!” He says. “Was that you distracting me? What did I tell you? _Fate_. Pay up.”

  
“I hate you,” Dan says, shaking his head as he leafs through his dwindling pile of money. “Landlords don’t deserve rights.”

  
“Yeah yeah,” Phil says, taking the little stack of money and counting it obnoxiously. He loses track, eyes sliding over the brightly coloured notes without seeing them. He’s picturing it, against his better judgement - picturing Dan leaning across the table to kiss him, scattering Community Chest cards as he goes, hands in Phil's hair. “I want that too, y'know. The – the kissing thing.”

  
When he looks over at Dan, he's biting his lip.

  
“I'm sorry.”

  
“Sorry for what?” Phil asks, completely nonplussed. “Have you short changed me? You promised you wouldn’t cheat.”

  
“No,” Dan scoffs, but he laughs a little, which is what Phil had been going for. “Sorry for – for _this_. For dragging you into this situation, for – I dunno. Sometimes I think I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. Left you alone.” Phil opens his mouth to protest, but Dan's still going. “You could be, like, out there with some really hot guy, you know. Making out all over the place. Whatever.”

  
“Oh my _God_ ,” Phil says, not knowing where to start. “Did you really just apologize for – for _liking_ me? Like, what, I'm here under coercion? I’m being held _hostage_? That’s what you think?”

  
“ _No_ ,” Dan says, cheeks pink. “I just. I know we can’t – we can’t kiss or – or do anything. We can’t even fall asleep together on the sofa. And I want to, _so_ badly, and – I dunno, I feel like it’s not enough. _I’m_ not enough. Without all that, I mean.”

  
Phil swallows, hard.

  
“You’re enough,” He says. “Jesus, Dan. Even if this was _it_ , forever, even if – even if we had to get nine more pairs of gloves and – and _balaclavas_ , I dunno. Even if we didn’t and we just – we just talked. I don’t _care_. God, Dan. You being here is more important to me than any of that. And – and you don’t have to be sorry about it, either. I’m not. You make me really happy, so. I’m not sorry at all.”

  
Dan swallows, eyes wide. Phil's never wanted to hug a person more in his entire life.

  
“This is just making it worse, y’know. The – the throwing the board thing.”

  
“Good,” Phil says. They smile at each other. “Now pass the dice. I’ve got a game to win.”

  
“In your dreams,” Dan says, handing them over.

  
-

  
Summer rolls in and it gets hot, and Phil still wears long-sleeved shirts. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s worth it to have Dan walking next to him without flinching away.

  
Dan wears long sleeves too. And the gloves. Phil wonders what people must think when they see them – he wonders if he should care more.

  
“God, take that off,” Dan says one Saturday morning when Phil slips out of his room in an old baseball shirt that he wears to bed in the winter. “You'll get heatstroke.”

  
“ _You'll_ get heatstroke,” Phil grumbles. There’s already a wet sheen of sweat on his forehead and he kind of wants to be cryogenically frozen until December, but he can deal with it.

  
“Maybe I should just hibernate,” Dan says, dropping into the armchair and crossing his legs. He’s wearing shorts – his one concession to the baking heat, and there’s something weirdly tender and vulnerable about his pale shins. “Move to the Arctic Circle.”

  
“I was just thinking that,” Phil says, fiddling with his shirt sleeve. “Well. Cryogenic freezing. Same difference.”

  
Dan uncrosses his legs and wipes the back of his forehead with his hand.

  
“D'you think that actually works? Cryogenic freezing, I mean.” Just as Phil’s about to answer, he holds up a finger. “Actually that can wait, you should change your shirt first.”

  
Phil rolls his eyes. All the same, he ducks back into his room to shrug the shirt off, leaving it in an unpleasantly damp heap by the wardrobe. He shrugs on a normal old t-shirt, worn thin by too many washes, and sighs a little at the tickle of a slight breeze on his exposed arms. He grabs another short sleeved shirt and throws it in Dan’s general direction when he traipses back into the living room, slumping down on the sofa with a huff.

  
“God, what were we gonna do today? It’s too hot to do anything.”

  
“Iced coffee,” Dan reminds him, hands stroking distractingly over the fabric of the thrown shirt. “And put our feet in the fountain at the park.”

  
“I think that’s, like, frowned upon. Using old fountains as foot baths.”

  
Dan waves a hand.

  
“Everyone does it.” He pauses. “Anyway, this won’t last. The, er, weather. It's forecast to rain next week. Really badly, actually.” He pauses. “I have something to ask you.”

  
“No, I don’t have power over the weather,” Phil says, arm thrown dramatically over his damp brow. “If I did I'd make it _snow_ , I swear to God.” When Dan doesn’t say anything – doesn’t even laugh at his terrible joke, he sits up to look at him. “What is it? What did you wanna ask?”

  
“There are gonna be some really big thunderstorms. Next week, the week after. I was thinking, er. I read they’re gonna be really bad, like, up in the hills. In more rural places, I guess. So I was gonna go camping.”

  
“Camping?” Phil blinks. “Like. In a tent?”

  
“No, I just thought I’d sleep out in the open and get mauled by badgers,” Dan says, laughing a little. Phil rolls his eyes. “Would you mind coming with me?”

  
“Course not,” Phil says immediately, even though sleeping in a draughty tent and peeing in a bucket is the furthest its possible to get from his idea of a good time. “Is it…? Are you gonna try and…?” He makes a vague shape in the air with his hands, but Dan understands.

  
“Maybe,” He says. “I mean, hopefully.”

  
Phil swallows.

  
“And what if – what if it’s the wrong sort of lightning and you just die?”

  
“I won’t _die_ ,” Dan scoffs. “Lightning doesn’t kill people.”

  
“Bet it does sometimes,” Phil says doubtfully, fingers twitching a little with the urge to google it.

  
“It didn’t last time,” Dan says, with a shrug. “And – and if it works, we can…” He trails off, cheeks pink.

  
“Give those gloves to a charity shop?” Phil suggests, heart fluttering.

  
“Basically, yeah.”

  
-

  
Thankfully, it’s pretty easy to get the time off work. He was owed some holidays anyway – not that that would’ve stopped him. Sometimes when he’s sitting there in his stupid office clothes behind his desk, listening to the whirr of the printer and the laughter of his colleagues, he imagines just getting up one day – just walking out and never coming back. Doing that and going on a camping trip with Dan would’ve just been killing two birds with one stone.

  
A camping trip. Dan gets a car, somehow – a tiny little thing with fuzzy dice so old they’ve gone shiny, faded in the sunlight.

  
“It’s _so_ ugly,” Phil says, the first time Dan drives it over.

  
“It was _cheap_. Really cheap.”

  
“Yeah, for a good reason. It’ll probably go like ten metres then conk out completely.”

  
“Alright, Mr. Flash,” Dan teases. “Sorry it's not a Ferrari.”

  
“It's _brown_.”

  
“It'll get us where we need to go!” Dan says, patting the car's roof with something approaching fondness. “We should name it.” He pauses. “Don’t you even _dare_ say Susan.”

  
“I wasn’t gonna!”

  
“Liar,” Dan says, grinning at him. “It’s your go-to name for everything. I know you too well, Lester.”

  
“What about Susan but -" He raises his voice when Dan opens his mouth to protest. “The second S is the number five. But it’s still pronounced the same.”

  
“Like Deadmau5,” They say, simultaneously.

  
“I knew you were gonna say that,” Dan says, laughing. “Fucking Deadmau5, Su5an, you’re the worst.”

  
-

  
It sticks, somehow, by virtue of them constantly joking about it as they load the car up with the camping stuff. Phil eyes a lot of it dubiously – the stove with the little gas bottle, a clanking bag of spare tent pegs, the cushions off Dan's bed.

  
“Why do you even have this stuff,” Phil asks, trying to get the tent to fit in the boot with much pushing and swearing.

  
“I used to like festivals,” Dan says. “Watch Su5an, will you. They can’t match that shade of brown in a respray, it’s unique.”

  
“Yeah, a unique shade of shit. No offence, Su5an.” He stops pushing for a second, standing up straight. “Dunno if I can picture you at a festival.”

  
“I was a baby,” Dan says. “Like, a literal child. Seventeen,” He clarifies, when Phil frowns.

  
“Tiny Dan,” He says, absently, giving the tent one last shove. Something finally gives, with an ominous clunk, and he manages to shut the boot at last. “Yes! He triumphs!”

  
-

  
“We should go to a festival,” Phil says, later. They’re in the car - he'd tried to say that he could sit in the back so Dan wouldn’t be so anxious, but Dan had told him not to be daft. “If, you know.”

  
If Dan successfully gets struck by lightning and it works and doesn’t just kill him or severely injure him.

  
“You hate camping,” Dan points out. “We haven’t even camped yet and I can already tell.”

  
Phil shrugs.

  
“Anything’s better with you there.”

  
“What, even peeing in gross festival toilets? It really is a next level of grossness. A _plateau_ of grossness.”

  
“I’ll take your word for it,” Phil says, pulling a face. He watches Dan drive for a moment – watches his side profile and the way his hair’s going a little frizzy in the heat, the way he bites his lip while he concentrates, eyes darting here and there. “But yeah. Even that.”

  
He’d accidentally spoken in a far softer tone than he’d intended, words escaping him tender and small, baby birds too fragile to take flight. Dan flicks his indicator on and looks over at Phil for a moment. He’s so handsome that it’s hard to breathe – like just his proximity is enough to snatch all of the air out of the already cramped car.

  
“ _You make using festival toilets bearable_ ,” He says, grinning, cheeks pink. “Sell it to Hallmark, Phil, that’s a winner.”

  
But his hand twitches tellingly on the gear stick. It’s a gesture Phil’s come to associate with the gloves – with an unspoken desire to touch. The gloves are in Dan’s rucksack in the boot of the car, irretrievably trapped under the tent until they reach their destination.

  
Privately, foolishly, Phil rests one hand on top of another in his lap, in a pale imitation of how he’d touch Dan now if he could. It’s a hollow gesture – all he feels are his own sweaty palms, but Dan catches it somehow, a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.

  
“Just wait til the lightning hits me,” He says, in an undertone, hand twitching again, reaching up to push his hair off his forehead. “You’ll get fed up of me holding your hand.”

  
“No I won’t,” Phil says, and knows he’s never meant anything more in his whole life.

  
-

  
They drive for a long time. They get out at a service station and Phil meets Dan outside the toilets with a bag brimming full of sugary snacks, much to Dan’s fond exasperation. They drive down endless motorways, hemmed in first by grey concrete and illuminated billboards, then rolling farmland. The day gets unbearably hot, then wanes a little as the sun starts to set.

  
“As much as I respect your decisions, I am not putting a tent up in the dark,” Phil says.

  
“You won’t have to. We’re nearly there.”

  
There turns out to be a fenced-off wooded area in the middle of nowhere. They drive down country lane after country lane, high hedges encroaching so closely that Phil’s arm gets snagged by branches when he rests it out of the window.

  
“Dan,” Phil says, when they’re driving down an overgrown path that almost certainly wasn’t meant for cars. “That sign just said something about trespassers. That’s us. We’re trespassing.”

  
“Nobody comes here, I promise,” Dan insists. “It was on one of those forums, you know, for urban explorers, or whatever. It used to be part of an old mine.”

  
“So we’re gonna fall down an abandoned mineshaft?”

  
“No, we’re gonna camp by a lake. Look.”

  
Sure enough, in the waning daylight, water glints golden through the trees.

  
“You hate woods,” Phil reminds Dan, when he cuts the engine. “And abandoned places.”

  
“Yep,” Dan says, something more than a little manic about his smile. “Come on.”

  
-

The tent turns out to be the kind that sort of pops up by itself and just needs pegging down. Dan laughs at the look on Phil's face, the torch from his keyring bathing everything in weird yellow light.

"This is like a horror game, you know that?” Phil grumbles, when he's knocking the tent pegs in. "Slenderman's gonna burst out of the trees and gut both of us like fish."

"Why would you _say_ that?" Dan says. "Oh my _God_ , Phil."

The first crack of thunder rumbles above them just as the last peg is hammered into the ground. Phil looks up at Dan, face indistinct beyond the line of torchlight. There's a moment when neither of them say anything, then they both run for the car, Phil's feet slipping on the damp grass. He clambers into the driver's seat and Dan throws himself into the back, just as the rain starts to fall.

"This is terrifying," Phil says, conversationally.

Outside, dusk is drawing in closer, greying rainclouds darkening the sky before their time. "You know that, right? If I see any, like - paper on trees, or whatever -"

"Shut up!" Dan says, voice kind of dramatically high-pitched. He laughs. Phil looks over the seat at him, sprawled out in the back there - as much as a person can be sprawled out in a car this small - and his heart aches to crawl back there with him - to grab his hand and put it on his chest so he can feel how fast his heart's beating, to lose his fear in soft touches and warm kisses.

He feels hot then, so he looks away, eyes catching on the drops of rain chasing each other down the windscreen. The thunder cracks through the sky like a gunshot, a flash of lightning following not far behind. The storm is close.

"Guess that's my cue," Dan says, quietly.

Phil's stomach feels like it's twisting into knots at that, as the real reason why they're here hits him, heavy on his shoulders.

"You don't have to," He says, weakly, because he doesn't know what else to say. "We can just go back home. You can stay at my place, I..."

"I have to _try_. This - this is the first real lot of stormy weather there's been where I thought - where I thought this could be _it_ , you know?" He shrugs. "I dunno what else to do."

Neither does Phil. His mind's roaring. Maybe they just haven't looked in the right places - maybe there's one more book out there they haven't found yet, one more long-abandoned forum thread with the right answer. There has to be something more than this - than Dan wandering in the middle of a storm, hoping to get struck down.

"What if it doesn't hit you? What if it _does_ and - and you get hurt, or it doesn't work, and-"

"Hey, hey," Dan says, voice soft. Neither of them are wearing gloves, and Phil feels the lack of them like a physical pain. All he wants to do is grab hold of Dan's hand and not let go. "I didn't think I'd get struck by lightning the first time, did I? I'm already, like, way out there in terms of the most unlikely shit happening to me." He pauses. "You, too. I mean. Us getting the same bus, you - you not running and screaming from me even though you probably should have. That's pretty unlikely too."

"No it's not," Phil says. "That was always gonna happen."

Dan smiles then, soft and beautiful.

"Oh right, yeah, I forgot. You and fate."

"We're BFFs."

"Please - please don't say that ever again," Dan says, stupid pained look on his face. He laughs though, shaking his head, and Phil can't help but laugh too.

The thunder crashes again overhead, making Phil jump.

" _Jesus_."

"You should go and get in the tent," Dan says. "Or - actually, you stay here. I dunno how safe they are in storms. Should've probably googled it."

"I'm not staying anywhere," Phil says, incredulous. "Are you mad? I'm coming with you."

"It might not be safe. I don't want _you_ to get struck by lightning."

"So it's fine for you but not me? Dan."

"I know I'll be fine either way. It didn't hurt me last time and - and what's the worst that could happen, it does nothing? Or - or it makes it so everything I touch dies and bursts into _flames_ , or something? I'm already cut off from everything like this. From - from you." He's quiet for a moment then, breath coming fast and loud in the small space. "There's nothing to lose, is there?”

Phil swallows hard.

"You're not cut off from me," He says. "That's - you're _not_. I'm right here." He pauses, words weighing heavy in his throat. "I'm always gonna be right here."

It's too much too soon, he knows that. But he also knows he means it, feels it right down in his bones. Wherever Dan goes, whatever he does, Phil knows he won't be far behind. Not if Dan doesn't want him to be.

Dan's expression is incomprehensible in the poor light.

"Where are those stupid gloves, Jesus _Christ_."

Phil laughs.

"In the bag in the boot."

"Whose stupid idea was it to put them there?"

"Yours, I think," Phil says, relaxing when Dan smiles, shaking his head. "Come on, let's go. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Dan says.

-

It's eerie, walking in torchlight past the trees. They're skirting around the edge of the forest, the lake on one side of them, water black and glassy where it reflects the light. The wind rustles through the trees, branches creaking, the rain loud on the leaves far above. Phil doesn't miss Dan's frantic glances here and there, like something could burst out onto the path ahead of them at any moment. He isn't exactly unaffected himself, heart beating hard in his chest, trying to focus on the little circle of light coming from his phone. When the lightning flashes it lights everything up for a moment, gnarled limbs of trees flashing white in the gloom.

  
“We have to get out into the open,” Dan says, words barely audible over the endless patter of rain. “There are fields along here.”

  
“I really don’t feel good about this.”

  
Dan looks at him, face in shadow. His hair's curling in the rain, a stripe of torchlight illuminating his chin and a raindrop gleaming there. Phil can’t help but think that if he could kiss him right now that his mouth would be cold and taste like rain.

  
“I can do it. I promise, everything will be ok. It can’t be worse than this.” 

  
On the last word he reaches out and catches hold of one of the beautiful white flowers that borders the path, tiny and bright in the gloom. He thinks they’re weeds – his mum used to call them cow parsley. One moment the flowers are white and pretty and the next the stem is withering, blooms quickly fading, first to brown then black, shriveled and gnarled. Phil gulps down a breath – he’s never seen Dan touch something living on purpose like that before.

  
Dan just holds the dead plant in his palm for a moment before he lets it go.

  
“Anything's better than that,” He says, quietly.

  
Phil doesn’t know what to say. He just nods, a thick feeling in the back of his throat. They walk a little quicker after that.

  
-

They take a shortcut through some smaller trees, birch saplings shining bone-white in the darkness. Phil's hands are getting cold, water dripping onto his face from his hood, making him cringe. He stumbles on the uneven ground, steadying himself on trees as they pass. Dan seems to walk completely unaffected, like a ghost.

  
There’s a clearing up ahead – grass overgrown and wild, rippling in the wind. Just as Phil's about to say something stupid about wishing he'd brought a coat, the sky splits in two – thunder roars all around them, and a bright white bolt of lightning cleaves through the purple sky and hits a tree across the clearing. There's the almighty sound of wood cracking, the groaning of the old tree. Phil's heart is beating so fast he can’t breathe – the storm must be right over them, and he longs to grab Dan's arm, to stop him going any further – for the two of them to retreat to the safety and warm darkness of the car.

  
Dan looks back at him, face grey in the poor light, features hard to discern, smudged charcoal in the shelter of the trees.

  
“I'll be ok,” He says, and walks out into the clearing.  
Phil doesn’t expect anything to happen. Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. Even so, his chest is tight and he wants to shout, to plead with Dan not to do this.

  
There’s another crack of thunder, so loud, louder than an earthquake, like the sky might fall in and crush them. The lightning forks down, impossibly bright and fast, illuminating Dan for a moment, head thrown back and eyes closed, standing stock still.

  
Then he crumples into a heap on the ground. Phil's running before he even decides to, before he even realises, shouting Dan's name like it’s being torn from his lungs. 

  
“Dan, _Dan_ , Jesus fucking Christ-"

  
“Told you,” Dan wheezes, eyelids fluttering. There’s mud on his hands, stark against the pale, when he touches his face, his hair. Phil's stuck there on his knees a safe distance away, wanting more than anything to bridge the gap and gather Dan up in his arms but not knowing if it’s safe.

  
“Told me, fucking _told me_ , I'm gonna _kill_ you-"

  
But Dan isn’t listening. He’s pulling himself into a sitting position like even the tiniest movement costs him everything. He’s holding a blade of grass in his hand, the stalk bending in the wind.

  
It’s green. It’s still fresh, still bright under his fingers. Phil watches as he reaches out and touches the grass around him, desperate, reaching.

  
“It worked,” He says. “I think it worked, did it-? It’s not dying, is it? It actually _worked_.”

  
He looks at Phil, torn-up grass in his cupped hands, bright and alive. His smile is so beautiful it feels cold in Phil's chest for a second. And they should check, they should wait just to be sure – they should retreat to the safety of the car.

  
Except Dan is so lovely, so _wonderful_ , and Phil’s been holding his hand through gloves for too long. When he finally scrambles across the muddy ground, rain beating down on his back, his heart clenches hard in his chest for a moment with fear – that this will be the last thing he ever does.

  
He reaches out anyway, hands shaking when cold skin meets cold skin, his muddy hands touching Dan's hands, then his wrists, then the side of his neck. He can’t breathe properly – like the air's being snatched from his lungs when Dan touches him too, hands brushing his hair back, thumb gently tracing his cheekbone.

  
That first kiss is wet with rain and overwhelming. Phil touches Dan everywhere he can and holds on tight. The sky rumbles with thunder overhead and Phil doesn’t care, he couldn’t care less about anything beyond this – beyond the touch of Dan's hands, the ragged whispers of breath between them.

  
“How did that work,” Phil says, pulling back just enough to throw his arms around Dan at last, pulling him into a hug. “How did that _work_ -"

  
“I don’t know,” Dan says, holding on tight. “I wasn't sure if it would.”

  
“God,” Phil says, letting him go so he can touch his face again – feel the softness of his skin under his fingertips, touch the freckles that he knows are there but are invisible in the poor light. “God, Dan.”

  
Phil's throat is thick, his skin tingling everywhere Dan has touched, branded with the mark of his impossible fingertips.

  
“I’m never wearing gloves again,” Dan says, voice hoarse.

  
He's laughing when Phil leans in to kiss him.

  
-

  
**_One month later_ **

**_-_ **

“I think it’s always gonna be like this, you know,” Dan says.

  
Phil's yawning in front of the bathroom mirror, skin extra pale in the yellow light. There’s a blurry fingerprint mark on his glasses that he needs to clean off before it drives him crazy.

  
Dan slips in behind him, arms snaking around him, kissing his shoulder through his t-shirt.

  
“Hmm?”

  
Dan laughs then, hot huffs of breath that make Phil squirm and shudder.

  
“Decaf brain. Should’ve waited til you had coffee.”

  
“No no no, tell me,” Phil says, turning in his arms so they can look at each other properly. “I'm awake, I'm - I'm alert. Lots of other a words.”

  
“Arsehole,” Dan says, at the same time as Phil says “Attractive.”

  
They laugh like little kids, shoulders shaking, noses brushing.

  
“Let's go out for breakfast. That little café you like. With the coffee that’s basically just sugar. My treat.”

  
“Can you guide me there? I’m old and frail without caffeine.”

  
Dan rolls his eyes, but kisses him anyway, one hand soft at the nape of his neck.

  
“I’m never gonna get tired of this,” He says, quietly, pulling back just enough. “I thought – maybe the, like, novelty would wear off, y'know? Like – like everything was so intense ‘cause – ‘cause I couldn’t touch you, and then I could. But that’s not it, it’s…it’s just _you_. I’m always gonna feel stupid and – and crazy and _overwhelmed_ , I dunno. Just ‘cause of you.”

  
Phil swallows hard, lost in Dan's eyes for a moment.

  
“Me too,” He says, softly. “God, me too.”

  
It isn’t _I love you_ , not yet. Phil feels it anyway – a shining beacon under his breastbone, a warmth. He kisses Dan because he can. He kisses him because of the line of perfectly kept geraniums that now live on Dan's kitchen windowsill, flowering and lovely, bright with colour in the monochrome space. Because now they can fall asleep on the sofa together, and walk down the street damp palm to damp palm. Because later they might get breakfast at that little café.

  
Now, he speaks his love with his hands. They crawl back into bed, soft and warm, worlds away from the city trundling on beyond the walls of the flat.

  
They’ve got time.


End file.
